by Joan Aiken
‘Such warnings are seldom heeded,’ he said. ‘Younger folk, of course, are obliged to take the advice of their older friends, but a woman of your aunt’s age and experience must be assumed to know her own mind, permitted to commit her own follies. Perhaps as an example to the rest of us! So, people learn life’s harsh lessons. All we can do is pray for her; and that I will most certainly do.’
‘Thank you,’ said Emma in a choked voice.
As a comforter, he was falling far short of her ideal. All that he had said so far seemed to her mechanical, delivered by rote, shaped on a formal, accustomed pattern. It had no value for her. But talking to him for this length of time had at least eased her heart of its load of uncommunicated woe; she felt a little calmer and more in control of herself. She stood up, putting away Aunt Maria’s letter.
‘One practical measure I can take, however,’ said Mr Howard, standing up likewise, ‘is to write to a friend of mine, Charles Montagu, who is rector of a Protestant church in Dublin. We clergy, as you know, often hear of people’s comings and goings; an Englishwoman newly married to a Captain O’Brien might find her way to his church, or he might hear of her through a colleague; it is not at all improbable that I may procure news of her.’
‘Can you do that, sir?’ Emma’s face lit up. ‘Oh, I should be so very grateful! Just to know where she is – so that I may write to her – would ease my mind so much.’
‘Dear Miss Emma, I fear that you are permitting your sensibility to run away with you and lead you into gothick fancies. Depend upon it, your aunt will be found to be quite happy and comfortable, respectably established in Dublin. I daresay you will soon hear from her again in a more cheerful vein.’
‘I just wish she were here,’ sighed Emma miserably. ‘Here now, with me, looking at this beautiful sunset.’
‘It is quite particularly magnificent, is it not?’ agreed Mr Howard, much relieved at being able to turn to another, more agreeable topic. His eyes rested on Emma’s face, he began to speak, but then evidently changed his mind. After a moment, however, he said, ‘Dear Miss Emma – you know – we can make sunsets for ourselves. The world need never be entirely grey for us.’
At that moment the expression on his face was so eager and pleading that she might have asked him to explain himself more distinctly, when a voice hailed them from the lane.
‘Good day!’
‘Ha! Here comes Purvis,’ Mr Howard said hastily. ‘I believe you have not met him yet, Miss Emma? Allow me to introduce you.’
Emma received a strong impression that he felt their interview was most fortunately brought to a conclusion. She picked up her basket and walked composedly into the lane.
Mr Edward Purvis was not at all handsome, but he had a sensible, benevolent face and a kindly, cordial manner, especially when he learned that he was meeting the youngest Miss Watson.
‘I see a great look of your father in you, Miss Emma,’ he remarked.
Emma, showing the two clergymen up to her father’s chamber – after first making sure that he was awake – thought how unspeakably sad, how unfair it was that this solid, excellent man had been beguiled away from Elizabeth by the stratagems of Penelope. I shall never, never trust Penelope, she thought. I can see that this Purvis would have made just the husband for Elizabeth – good-natured, cheerful, full of energy, spirit, and sound sense. What a waste! What a dreadful waste!
The two gentlemen visitors remained with Mr Watson for three-quarters of an hour. Emma left them alone together. Their purpose was to make a selection of his sermons to offer to a publisher; but Mr Watson would permit them to take only the ones which Emma had recently read to him. The others, he said, must wait until they, too, had been through that process. ‘Emma reads so well,’ he remarked fondly, ‘that I can very readily perceive all their merits and demerits, and so speedily reach an estimate as to which are worth preserving.’
‘Miss Emma is a most valuable member of your household,’ said Mr Howard.
Mr Purvis said nothing. But he sighed.
Emma, out in the stable-yard, fetching a basket of wood for the fire, discovered her sister, back from the excursion to Dorking, quietly leading the pony to its stall.
‘Elizabeth! Back so soon? How did you fare? I want to hear all your story. But first – you will have seen their horses – Mr Howard and Mr Purvis are here, upstairs, with our father, talking about sermons.’
Elizabeth turned perfectly white. She sat down abruptly on the edge of a corn-bin.
‘Mr Purvis! Oh, no! Then I cannot go indoor. I cannot – cannot meet him. Not for anything in the world.’
Emma was smitten to the heart. I never, no, absolutely never felt anything to that degree about Mr Windrush, she thought. It was my vanity that was affected, never my feelings.
‘Walk into the orchard,’ she suggested gently. ‘They will not be here above ten minutes longer, I daresay; Mr Howard said that he did not wish to tire my father. I will come and call you when they are gone.’
Indeed, as Emma made her way into the house by the back door, she heard the gentlemen descending the stair.
Mr Purvis had glanced out of the landing window.
‘Do the young ladies have their aunt staying with them?’ Emma heard him ask Howard in a tone of surprise. ‘I thought I saw her in the stable-yard.’
‘No, that must have been the older Miss Watson that you saw – their aunt is in Dublin; indeed Miss Emma is somewhat concerned about her aunt—’ Mr Howard was heard to reply, but Purvis did not heed the latter part of his remark.
‘That was Miss Elizabeth? But she is so changed! She looks so much older. I would never have known her—’
Downstairs, the two men said a friendly goodbye to Emma, and Mr Howard patted a fat package wrapped up in brown paper.
‘I have some of your father’s works safe here, Miss Emma, and shall take the very greatest care of them, I promise you. And shall call for more as you pursue your excellent programme of reading them aloud to him. I am in good hopes that there may be a most successful outcome to this scheme. And,’ he added in a lower tone, ‘I will not forget my promise about Mrs O’Brien. I will write to my friend Montagu tonight.’
‘Thank you, sir. I am obliged to you,’ Emma answered him rather shortly.
As she watched the two men ride away down the lane, her heart was full of anger. Against whom this anger might be directed, she would have found it hard to specify. It is all very fine for them, she thought rather confusedly, to come here and perform their kind deed; they are not going to be turned out of their homes, they are not subject to the whims of husbands who spend their money and behave unkindly; they are not arbitrarily deprived of their assured place and future.
But then she sighed, remembering Sam had told her that Mr Purvis had an ailing wife and a miserably small income to support her on; that Mr Howard was in some way committed to Lady Osborne, which situation did not seem to put him in very cheerful spirits. He is only happy when he is with his sister and nephews, Emma thought. And it is certainly amiable of the pair to take so much time and trouble over my father’s writings, when they cannot really have very high expectations of the outcome.
She walked out to the orchard, and called, ‘Elizabeth! Elizabeth! They are gone. You may safely come in! And did you remember to buy the gum tragacanth?’
Chapter 4
Washed, rinsed with rosemary, and anointed with all the care that Emma’s eager affection could achieve, employing a mixture of gum tragacanth, almond essence, olive oil, rosewater, and old rum, Elizabeth’s crown of hair began, after some days, to display a most gratifying improvement, especially when the treatment was combined with an application of brandy to the scalp three times a week. The hair began to show a far thicker, more glossy, and luxuriant aspect. This had the effect of making Elizabeth look younger, and the confidence given her by awareness of the change added an extra cheerfulness and glow t
o her whole manner and appearance.
‘If only we had some of my aunt’s Milk of Roses, which she declared worked wonders for the complexion,’ sighed Emma, studying her sister’s undeniably weather-beaten cheeks. ‘But for that you need gallons of rose-water, and benzoin, and oil of almonds.’
‘The people of Dorking are accustomed to my complexion,’ Elizabeth pointed out calmly.
‘That is why we want to surprise them.’
Emma had to content herself with rubbing lemon peel twice daily on her sister’s face.
‘You have a duty to yourself as well as to the other members of the family,’ she scolded. ‘And I wish never to see you wear that terrible old cap again, which causes you to look like a washer-woman. Give it to old Nanny for a duster.’
The next Dorking Assembly was now little more than two weeks away, and Emma had resolved that her sister should, for once, forget the cares and anxieties of the parsonage, above all forget her heartache over Purvis, and spend a thoroughly enjoyable evening, if possible dancing every dance. Elizabeth was an excellent dancer, graceful and light-footed, and in younger days dancing had been her favourite pastime.
‘If only she had a new gown!’ lamented Emma to Mrs Blake. With this lady she had, by degrees, struck up a most comfortable friendship. They frequently took their walks together in Osborne Park, with the children, when the weather was favourable, and, when it was adverse, sat together, sewed, and mended the children’s clothes in Mrs Blake’s parlour.
Though invariably invited, Elizabeth could seldom be persuaded to make one on these occasions: ‘She was not so fond of walking as Emma – had too much to occupy her at home she had not Emma’s easy way with the children – she was certain that Emma and Mrs Blake must have a thousand things to talk about together, books, poetry, music, history, painting, on all of which topics she was wholly ignorant – when she did have a little free time, preferred to pass it usefully in her garden did not like to leave their father too long unattended . . .’ In short, she could not be enticed into the park or into Wickstead Cottage.
Whereas, for her part, Emma did not deny to herself that she preferred, if it was possible, to escape from the parsonage on those days when Mr Howard might be expected to come and sit with Mr Watson. For some reason she was no longer comfortable in Mr Howard’s company, indeed felt thoroughly uneasy with him; she could not have explained precisely why, but so it was. The single brief encounter with Lady Osborne had implanted most forcibly the suggestion that Mr Howard was not his own man, but was bound in duty to his benefactress. In consequence of which, Emma had rather be elsewhere when he visited the house.
Frequently, after one of these calls, Mr Watson would remark in his mild voice, ‘Howard was asking after you, Emma. He told me he has not seen you these two-and-a-half weeks. He said, I think, that he was sorry to miss you.’ And Emma always replied, ‘Mr Howard does not come to see me, Papa; it is your company and conversation that bring him here, that and the meritorious wish to introduce your sermons to a wider audience.’
‘Well, well! It may be so.’
When Emma lamented her sister’s lack of a new gown to her friend Mrs Blake, the latter said at once: ‘If your sister would not be offended, I have some dark-blue Persian silk. I bought it for an Assembly in Portsmouth a year ago, but then my husband was ordered off to sea at two days’ notice, and I never made use of it. That, with a piece of black gauze, I think, by an afternoon’s contrivance, we might very readily convert into an evening cloak for her – I have been so thrown about the world, into so many naval lodgings, that I am at least tolerably handy with my needle at creating an appearance of fashion—’
‘Oh, Mrs Blake! That would transform Elizabeth’s old blue muslin!’
The afternoon’s contrivance was readily achieved, and the cloak created. Elizabeth, tall and slender, with her crown of shining hair, and the new cloak to veil the deficiencies of her old muslin gown, was pronounced to be both elegant and striking.
‘But indeed I do not know why you should be taking all these pains about me,’ she protested, over and over.
‘Because you work so hard for others and your life is so lacking in frolic,’ and may become much worse, very soon, Emma thought to herself. ‘Compare your situation with all those indulged and petted years I spent in the house of Aunt Maria.’
‘Oh, poor Aunt Maria. I wish so much that Mr Howard’s friend might send news of her.’
Sadly, so far, Mr Howard’s friend had nothing to report.
Four days before the Dorking Assembly, Emma walked down to Wickstead Cottage intending to take an airing in the park with Mrs Blake and the children. The arrangement had been made, in a conditional manner, two days earlier, depending upon the state of the weather and the health of the younger children, who had coughs; and, in fact, when Emma arrived at the appointed time she discovered that Mrs Blake thought it too cold for George, Frank and little Sophie to venture out; there was a sharp white frost, the puddles were iced over, hard as stone, and the farther reaches of Osborne Park were veiled in mist.
‘Indeed, to be honest, I hardly expected you, Miss Emma; but you are an intrepid walker, I know. Meanwhile Charles is already gone out into the park with Miss Osborne; however you may very easily catch them up.’
‘Miss Osborne!’ Emma felt considerable surprise at hearing that one of the castle ladies had been so obliging.
Mrs Blake explained. ‘Miss Carr, the lady who lives with them, is laid up with a badly swollen chilblain. So Miss Osborne, who dislikes to be alone, wanted a companion; and of course Charles was wild to go with her, for he admires her above everything in the world. He looks on her as some kind of fairy queen. But do you step along after them, Miss Emma, for they will not have gone very far or fast; they took the bilbo-cups and ball with them (somewhat against my wishes, I may say, for Miss Osborne is such a scatter-brain that they are sure to lose the ball and then my brother will give me a fine scold; but it is impossible to refuse her).’
‘But they will not want me,’ objected Emma. ‘Little Charles will be entirely happy with his grand companion. And I am very sure that Miss Osborne is not interested in my company.’
‘Quite the contrary, there you are wrong, my dear; she has several times expressed an interest in making your acquaintance. Ever since she saw you at the last Assembly she considers you look most delightfully interesting. It is her mother who – as you must be aware—’ Mrs Blake paused, delicately, ‘her mother who has reasons for feelings of – perhaps jealousy, animosity – though perfectly unfounded, I am sure.’
Deeply embarrassed, Emma stammered some disjointed reply, in which the name of Mr Howard might be heard among wishes not to cause offence – or presume to imagine – or give rise to any unfounded, ungrounded suppositions—
Mrs Blake smiled, a little sadly.
‘My brother is the dearest man in the world,’ she said. ‘And – and he has a most rigid, unbending sense of honour, the power of which I could not wish to be otherwise than it is. But this means, I know, that he considers himself contracted he is under an obligation – I am not certain if the lady in question considers herself equally committed, but she makes it plain enough that he is to be regarded as engaged. He is not at liberty to allow his fancy to wander or to contract other ties of any kind. And he must at all times be most carefully guarded in his behaviour. In short – well, I need not particularize; I can see that you, with your innate good sense, have perfectly grasped the situation and are taking practical measures to avoid seeing too much of my brother. Men, in these sorts of matters, are often amazingly blind to their own interest. And other people’s, too,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘I will not conceal from you, my dear Miss Emma, that I cannot whole-heartedly rejoice over this state of affairs; Lady Osborne is charming, cultivated, most comfortably situated, and – if events progress as they seem likely to – must provide my brother with a foothold in realms o
f society which would otherwise remain quite beyond his reach; but – but – but—’
‘You are not certain he will be happy with her,’ said Emma bluntly.
‘My brother Adam is so sweet-tempered that he will be sure to make the very best of any situation,’ said Mrs Blake, sighing. ‘But, no, I must confess that I would be hugely relieved if some honourable means would present itself through which he could be freed from this connection. But I see none. And he is by far too scrupulous even to consider such a possibility.’
‘I perfectly understand you,’ said Emma. ‘And I only wish I could talk to Lady Osborne and convince her of my wholly harmless intentions.’
‘I think that would hardly allay her anxieties,’ said Mrs Blake, laughing. ‘But now do not let me delay you from your walk any longer, dear Miss Emma; Charles and Miss Osborne took that path over the slope towards the lake.’
Walking briskly along the frozen track, Emma pondered over what had just been said. None of it was news to her; but to have unspoken assumptions, matters that have been permitted to hover in the mind only as half-formed thoughts, suddenly put into plain language, may yet cause considerable shock and distress; it is possible to be ashamed of the almost unexpressed hopes and wishes that, despite all caution, can linger in the heart; one may wish such hopes to remain undefined. Emma made a strong resolve to suppress all such reflections entirely from that moment onwards.
Mr Howard need not suffer any displeasure from Lady Osborne on my account, she thought firmly. I shall make it as plain as I possibly can that he means nothing to me. I have no wish to be likened to my sister Penelope, capable of laying claim to any male person, trying to entice away other women’s suitors; such odious practices are not for me!
Surmounting the frosty slope, she saw that the pair she sought had not paused beside the lake, but had followed a track which led away to the right, past a miniature grove. They were walking at a fair speed, and a little dog that accompanied them raced ahead, chasing something that was repeatedly thrown for him.
